Dying, Dying, Dying
by always-this-serious
Summary: (A One-Shot turned series of Villain One-Shots) (Latest: Geten x Dabi) Geten didn't know what it was to writhe. But if he had to guess, this was it: helpless, and unsatisfying. And also very dirty.
1. Dying, Dying, Dying (Dabi x Toga)

**A/N: Something I've had on my mind for a while now. Enjoy - and please do leave a little review to make my day!**

**Warning: Allusions to violent sex. **

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Dying, Dying, Dying

All of them were killers. One way or another, they'd all killed parts of themselves because at some point, somewhere, something had to die in order for them to stay alive. And Dabi knew it better than anyone. He knew that monsters weren't born but created; that it had been by licking his wounds – charred and heavy with the rawest, most oozing form of education – that he'd inherited a taste for blood in its purest variety.

Indeed, monsters were slowly formed like feed in the fire: sacrificed to the heat of callous memories and false ideals, burned up by echoes of cruelty inflicted until only embers of a once-was-self remained. Simmering and blackened, but with crimson-gold through their veins like the blood of young victims. Monsters were made – ruined and reborn in hatred, in shattered family portraits and hidden heirlooms – and Dabi knew it better than anyone. He knew that his was a body of burning sinews and a failing heart, organs collapsing one upon another in a farcical attempt at living.

He liked the crunch of necks beneath his boots, and terrified eyes, and bloodied lips quivering under his gaze.

The smell of flesh as it burned, blue flames carving welts and his name into the backs of heroes.

Once, before, Dabi had liked the feeling of his mother's hands – her fingertips cold and gentle over the places marred by his father's legacy. He'd liked his sister's cooking and ball-games with his little brother. A boy. He'd been a boy once, in all the warming glow of innocence. Scuffed knees from climbing trees and bruises from childish play; not bloodied knuckles and bite marks as the insignias of innocence lost. The taste of homemade meals and the smell of his mother's perfume – now replaced by the burn of cigarette smoke down his throat, and alcohol, and leaching crimson in shades like gemstones.

He'd no longer feel his mother's touch against the rough texture of his face. His sister and brother wouldn't be able bear seeing themselves reflected in his eyes.

Over and over, Dabi had died. He'd died and died and died, sometimes screaming, sometimes not – until at last he could recognise nothing of himself, nothing but the poisonous blue staring back at him from the mirror. Blue that danced over his palms. Blue that seared itself across photographs and long-gone faces in a brilliant display of monstrous hate. Dabi hated everyone and himself. Dabi liked it.

To defeat monsters one had to become the greater monster – and so he acquired a taste for screams and tears, for suffering. A suffering that made his own seem pale, palatable, so that he could watch the world around him burn while forgetting that he himself was a mess of wretched storms and bile. Of broken galaxies and the weight of his father's beliefs across his back in a scorched, bruising purple. Dabi became the judge, jury, executioner, and the weapon to carry out the sentence: the last thing they'd ever see. Smelling of smoke. A sturdy silhouette in the dream-lit light of a sapphire blaze.

Monsters weren't born. They were made.

Just like him.

Though sometimes, maybe – just maybe– monsters weren't made but were born.

Just like her, the girl with the heartless laugh and the flash of golden hair.

Wicked smile of sharpened teeth. Sing-song voice, harsh and jagged as though rung with shards of glass: the phantoms of abandoned playgrounds and empty swing sets. She got under Dabi's skin like nobody else, clawing through his veins in a seething, sugar-spun chassé. Brat. Bat-shit crazy, and with all the goddamn sweetness of dandelions – all the grace of a flower, golden and soft and fragile; all the venom of serpents, dripping from her lips in a metallic glinting of ruby. That was the thing about her, Dabi knew. She had knife wounds etched into her bones and blood dripping from her fists: born to hunt and born to destroy.

And it haunted him, the way she looked holy and divine, the way she burned and writhed and stained herself red in savagery. Death followed her like a perfume. There was the scorching heat of the sun in her eyes, rimmed by a cosmic darkness deeper than any of Dabi's scars. And he envied her for it – for her nature, how she wore blood like a second skin rather than like a desperate mask of war-paint. She cared nothing for vengeance nor for the glow of watching her enemies go up in flames. Unencumbered with past lives, no before-and-after to mark the design of her catastrophe: she was her own original source and creator. An explosion of dark matter without beginning or end.

She was pure, lucid evil – all for the sake of simply being so – embodied in a darling, doll-house body.

And Dabi hated her for it.

Those shrill giggles. The blossomy flush across her chubby cheeks. All porcelain relics that drove Dabi wild with rage. He'd been burned and forged. She'd been born and baptized, out from the womb in a bloody, messy madness. Steel from day-one with a taste for destruction rather than mother's milk.

Perhaps that was why she cooed when Dabi called her names. Maybe that was why she purred whenever he hit her hard across the face, the white skin of her jaw flaring up in an infectious redness, his handprint like a blue trophy along her cheek the next day. She wore the bruises of his abuse like pearl earrings; laughed at him because he was the lesser evil. She smiled – no, smirked – and would always scurry back for more, unscathed by the threat of the game because Dabi was secondary compared to the demons that pranced around her skull like tattered ballerinas inside a music box.

And though he hated her for it, he also drank it in. The smell of her: rust over strawberry-scented lotion. The heavy wetness of her tongue against his earlobe – _Hiii Dabi-kun ~ want to play? – _as well as its thirsty redness, as though she'd been sucking on cherry lollipops. She'd snake her hands, nails bitten down and broken, into his lap. Would watch the alcohol run down his throat, or the cigarette between his lips as it burned itself into hazy-grey oblivion. _You like me. You want to be like me. _

"You're cute when you're not being crazy," Dabi would say.

Already knowing the answer, she'd offer him a low crooning sound like a hungry kitten. Tilt her head. Lick her lips. "And when I am crazy? What am I then?"

"Fucking hot."

The first time, she'd licked the blood of her innocence off of him. Eager. Her hand lingering in a harsh, menacing grip along his cock. The day after, she'd grinned like a hungry predator, baring both her teeth and the swirling bruises down her neck like black jewels – and Dabi had pretended to know nothing about them. Shoving her away. Saying cruel things. Pretending, pretending, pretending that it didn't scorch his veins or set his insides trembling when she flounced and fluttered before him with all the childish nonchalance of a hyena. Blonde hair bouncing against her head in a lopsided mess. Giggles still fairy-light and thoroughly unfazed by him because he could never hurt her, no matter how badly he wanted to, and she knew it.

All the times after that, he fucked her to make her cry. His hands around her throat, his teeth chewing into her skin with all the intensity of a man sucking on bones. Harder still, Dabi would thrust into her with all the violent intention he could muster – like gouging out the seeds from a pomegranate, soaking in its extravagance and just as sweet – his own spine feeling like it might shatter under the strain.

Amongst the darkness of his bedroom (not hers; never hers – because the scent of her clothing in a girlish, stewing mess across the floor, and the teddy bears, and the pretty, bloody things she liked to keep – _oh fuck_, it all made him so weak). Against the dirty roughness of alleyway walls and bathroom stalls. On top of Kurogiri's bar counter – a personal favourite of Dabi's, because it gave him all the more reason to slap her through the face if she dared to make a sound.

He'd push himself into her mouth until she gagged. And then he would push deeper still, clenching her hair between his fingers as he forced her down against him. Keeping her on her knees no matter how the broken shards of glass dug into her skin, nor how her back ached under the pressure of his hands. He'd singe the insides of her thighs with his fingertips. Would relish the reverberating echo of her scream against his palm as he dug his staples into the naked flesh of her back. And while he came – into her, on her stomach, over her lips and face in a marking sowing of his pretend-power – he'd watch with a fleeting satisfaction as her eyes watered and while saliva spilled from her mouth in a breathy helplessness. She'd tremble. She'd dab at the violating mess between her legs.

She'd bleed.

But she'd never cry – instead, she'd laugh. Always with that bitter, lovely sound. Always sending an infuriated longing through Dabi's spine.

She'd laugh because no matter how bruised or bloody her body, Dabi's own was always an equal tragedy. A landscape of oozing scratches like five-lined valleys down his back, rich in their aching tenderness and pulling at his charred excuse for skin. Her teeth in mosaics of red in his neck. The flesh of his stomach: an inky watercolour of black and purple, her teeny fists having pounded against him with animal fierceness as she struggled to free her throat from his thrusts. She'd point out all the ways she had hurt him while he'd been trying, trying his hardest, to hurt her – _And you know why Dabi-kun? It's because you know you're still only second best. You like me because I'm_ _exactly what you want to be_.

Dabi was hand-made, crafted from the shrapnel of his father's hatred and attempts to kill the boy he'd been. Disintegrating in a cloud of blue suffocation, wishing and damning and fucking the pain away to fit better into this stapled façade. He was a delicate passing of rebellion, an aftereffect, the ephemeral silhouette fading out from a deficient past-life. But she – she was born with the boiling red blood of a polar bear; born to be a girl with a hint of the devil, cold hands sinking deeper, deeper, deeper into Dabi's core. Sliding serpent, apple-sweet creature of Hell.

He ripped at her clothes, cried into her skin because she was like divine absolution. All the things he could never be. His bite marks were the lyrics to hymns, all his violence across the expanse of her body an act of worship for the unattainable monster she dangled before him. He could never help himself – would always sink to his knees and moan into the bloodied mess he'd tried to make of her. _I love you, Toga._ He'd been a little boy once._ Fuck, fuck. I love you.  
_

_You know what your problem is, Dabi-kun? _Venom from her lips, her tongue flecked with the crimson of Dabi's blood. She'd lean down, lick the sweat from his neck like a suckling vampire. _Your problem is that you're still just dying, dying, dying to be loved, loved, loved_.


	2. Gloves (Overhaul x Adult Eri)

**A/N: Overhaul managed to escape the raid with Eri. The situation escalated. **

**Warning – Non-consensual sex between **_**adults.**_

Gloves

Hands in white gloves. Hands splotched by red like finger paint. Always he'd clenched them into fists against her cheek, and over and over she'd heard the crunching sound like breaking glass. The drip, drip, drip like fruit juice onto the table. Cool fingers, naked fingers, all over her flesh with the sear of ambition and the blackening trails of dark matter. Fear. Self-destruction.

Eri knew those hands – their touch heirlooms for only her to carry, how they pulled apart and sewed together her sinews and skin under the fluorescent darkness of anesthetics, of needles and knives and the promise that it wouldn't last much longer.

It wouldn't last much longer.

But those hands had clutched at her for so long that she'd forgotten how it felt not to be a doll – an apple to be cored and licked for all its sweetness – a porcelain shell full of dirt and grime and blood not her own, blackening, blackening ever outwards with the oozing, overwhelming thickness of ink poured from the pot. She was broken. She was ruined. Stained. Worthless. Cursed. And she didn't deserve to be touched gently, gently as the hero-boy from all those years ago had hugged her to his chest. She didn't deserve it.

Which was why Chrono had begun to scrub her skin raw, the bristles down her back and under her arms and between her legs like nails scraping her paleness into angry, searing red. And why she got shaved by razors freshly sharpened every night until the hair down her body became too frightened to grow back. And why she was made to bathe in ice cold water until the veins glowed sickly blue through her flesh, and why she was smothered in disinfectant like a second skin and spritzed with a new perfume every morning. Fruity, like the cakes she'd been given as a child for being a good girl. Blossomy, like the white flowers she'd started to find on her bedside table. Sickly sweet odours that carried with them the lifeless undertones of soap and even more disinfectant.

She was still dirty. He still looked at her like she was dirty, her reflection smoldering repulsive in his eyes like the sheen of forbidden gold and jewels.

No matter how white or beautiful the silk they draped her in – indeed, its luminosity in the mirror burned her eyes as though she were staring unblinking into an icy, midday sun – and no matter the amounts of purifying sake she drank, she could still feel it down her skin like scabbing grime in the shape of handprints. Hands in white gloves. Hands now pulling at the gossamer veil hung before her eyes: pulling her, pulling her, pulling her down the stairs and away from the gaze of the light where she'd repeated words spoken by a monk and Chisaki Kai had been called her husband.

His hands had claimed her body in so many ways before that this should not have felt any different. His palms like cups full of poison, his fingers like worms – crawling, strange and still-gloved, into places Eri had only read about in books Chrono had given her.

It should not have made her writhe inside, the way he moved his fingers in-and-out-in-and-out with the jolting ease of riding a see-saw.

It should not have made tears stream down her cheeks, the way he rubbed something wet and sticky between her legs, or how his bedroom's freezing air made parts of her shiver when they should not have been shivering, or how he ripped his gloves off with his teeth and tore away the thin shreds of material remaining over her body so that she lay frozen and completely naked and awfully, terribly, revoltingly filthy before him.

"Stay still, Eri-chan. And keep quiet."

His hands had claimed her body in so many ways before.

But this hurt so much worse than any sort of knife or needle. So much worse than watching him tear her apart and then forcing her body's puzzle pieces back together. This – seeing the ripple of his arm muscles as he leaned over her in a terrifying mountain, feeling her innards rip – ripping like the very threads of reality coming undone inside of her, like black holes bursting backwards and her organs falling to shreds – _this _was a new sort of disgusting.

Beneath him, in her place upon her back with her stomach coiling into knots, Eri imagined herself small enough to slip through the spaces between atoms.

Beneath the new weight of his hands, now bared to her skin as he pawed her – at her wrists, her hair, her hips – Eri tried to imagine herself without a voice to scream, without the syllables to beg him please stop. Please stop. "_Please_… st–"

She tasted the sting of sweat, the fleshiness of his palm as he clawed it against her mouth.

He dug himself into her as though he were scooping pomegranate seeds out from the crevices of her body – leaving a million pinpricks searing inside of her like red ants marching into the pit of her soul and biting, biting, biting – engraving himself onto the very last inches of flesh Eri hadn't known were untouched, clean, until now. Now that they were no longer untouched, now that they were no longer clean. Before, it had been so easy not to make a sound, to be a good girl and not cry. But as Kai hurdled himself once more into her, this time harder and harsher than anything Eri could remember, she shrieked through his hand and felt somewhere deep inside a cracking like bones being turned to powder.

Drip, drip, drip, like fruit juice onto the bed.

He slid off from her with the same sheen as ever in his eye, golden and repulsed, and clutched in his naked hand the wet, hard thing he'd put inside of her. A grunt. A sigh. "You were a good girl, Eri-chan. Well done." But feeling far from anything good, Eri rolled over and squeezed her legs shut to stop the soaking throbs and felt herself shiver against her vile nakedness. Everything was oozing. Everything inside of her went black. And like an heirloom, discarded onto the pillow amongst her hair, was the white glove. Begging to be held.

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**A/N: I don't know why I wrote this...**


	3. Oderint Dum Metuant (Shigaraki)

**A/N: A short one, I know. But it felt right. ****Reviews in the form of constructive criticism (or compliments, if you are so inclined) are always _very much appreciated_. **

**Warning: Self-harm and possibly body horror (?) **

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Oderint Dum Metuant  
_Let Them Hate, So Long As They Fear _

It shivered, the static of the screen – growing – wavering – scraping – its hazy glow illuminating his silhouette with the shapes and shades of the moth white moon. White light, blue, murky through the smoke as it rose in silken curtains from the ashtray. Casting a blur about the mirror: a dream-lit radiance, nightmarish obscurity like the dust. The dust. The dust that gathered eternal and inevitable – speck upon speck through the fingers of time, slivers of decay in blanketing greyness.

Decay.

Tomura knew decay, rot at his fingertips and the blaze of oblivion brimming in his ribcage. His power decayed. It tore at the seams of being like maggots chewed through flesh. It deteriorated, and no matter his desperate hold, he knew – he knew such power could not remain in his palms for much longer. Bigger monsters would come. Bigger monsters would come with a taste for destruction just as he, Shigaraki Tomura, had come before them. A lustful ache to watch the world burn, to lay his fingers upon every inch and to be fed by the devastation.

He was only powerful for a time. This power wasn't his to keep. Bigger monsters would come to destroy him for his power.

But they couldn't destroy him if he destroyed himself better.

So Tomura wielded a razor. He bared his teeth in a leering snarl, and considered their glint in his reflection – his flesh blue as that of stone-dead angels, cold and monumental; his bones jagged like the shards of diamonds, stabbing outwards from his hips and torso and chest in gruesome ridges. The static flickered upon him like an itch. The smoke glided against him in serpentine grace. And the blood… _Oh_, _the blood_… Oozing out from his thighs' waxen whiteness in inky blacks. Squeezing droplets out from the razor's slicing, relishing its sting. He gasped against a pain blurred with convulsing pleasure. He dug at himself deeper and harsher than anyone else could possibly stomach.

He'd tear himself to shreds. He'd scour out the threads of his flesh with blades and his own fingers, and he'd sew himself back together again with scar tissue. Then he'd laugh in the face of adversaries, spit upon the weapons they brandished before him – because lo! He could destroy himself better than they could ever hope to do.

Once, the razor carved its way through his leg. Twice, three times again. Its minty sharpness scored through the flimsy layers of muscle like a dinner knife through tender pork, spilling his blood like the accompanying wine – hints of rust and corrosion, overtones of ruby-onyx-obsidian glory silhouetted black in the room's glooming shadows.

It slid across his thigh. Over the fleshy humps of scars long closed by the threads of time and weakness. He bled: wet and warm, and brimming with swirling red power. Power! _Power_! And god, did he shiver.

Oh, how Tomura moaned with the possessive greediness of cumming.

Burying his teeth into the chapping flake of his lip and hacking deeper, wider, harsher until his breath burned sour as absinthe in his throat. Drunk with numb ecstasy. Anaesthetized and oblivious to the dizzy weakness of bloodless pallor as he bled, bled, bled – knowing his pain could never be lovely, knowing he could never make his anger sweet – but knowing too that he could destroy himself better than any enemy could ever suffer to do. He could rip himself apart with animal fervor. He could cut, cut, cut until his legs gave in beneath him and he collapsed half-naked and trembling in manic exhaustion before the mirror.

A lump of spent bones. A decaying soul with endless power in razors and blood.

Tomura laughed at his reflection though hot tears streamed down his cheeks like the blood gushed down his thighs in rivers of burdened might. He screamed Kurogiri's name – telling him to come see, come see what sort of bloody empire he, Shigaraki Tomura, could create upon his body alone! _Kurogiri! Kurogiri! Come see, come see! _But Kurogiri wasn't there to hear this time, wasn't there to come with bandages for the strength that leaked out in metal-scented throbs from Tomura's body. Kurogiri couldn't hear him anymore; and Tomura Alone watched his reflection crumble into fluid perishing under the blue static of computer-light.

But! But, he reminded himself, it was more than anyone else could do to him.

And the razor dropped from his hand with the quiet clanging of chains. And the blood seeped from his body in a gorgeous, flowing grace like water – like the smoke that rose from its ashtray in evanescent ghosts of decay. Soaking purple in the darkness. Embracing warmth upon his skin.

Nothing his enemies could do would destroy him more.

Nothing would make him feel more powerful than this - this cold, drenching pain.


	4. White Sky (Kurogiri)

**A/N: Been a minute, hasn't it? **

**No warnings with this one - just a big old manga spoiler, for those who may be behind the times. As usual, follows, favourites and reviews make my day. xxx**

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White Sky

A man cries before him.

Kurogiri doesn't know why.

A man cries before him with garbled words and nonsense pleas – a name, a time and a place like the ends of the earth dropping away unseen. Unexplored. Unknown. The man appeals. He clutches fruitlessly at an undulating void emptied of memory or understanding. And Kurogiri – Kurogiri listens with vague imaginings of a white sky. Clouds. Swimming and tumbling about each other with the grace of ocean-deep slow motion.

He wonders if he could reach it. If his hands would be able to touch such beckoning glows of softness and White. White in delicate puffs, so gentle and lonely. Fading to grey. Bruising to black. Black obscurity like spilled ink spreading; it spreads before Kurogiri's vision and pulls him down; down, down, down until he can no longer see, no longer hear. The stranger, the man – he no longer cries. His voice is lost to the chokehold of static, and Kurogiri floats as though upon a thick, black sea. He is alone, like driftwood with no place to go. But alas – he swims, flounders, gutters onwards. To what, he does not know.

Only, he does. Know. He kicks against the weeds which pull at him: swathes around his feet, clutching and calling him into the night-dark murk. It is All for One. It is Shigaraki. _Come see, come see, Kurogiri, come see me, come see me. _Shigaraki is calling him and needs him and Kurogiri has to be there for Shigaraki. But he isn't there. And he wants to scream, even though his lungs have no voice of their own. All that waits within them is ash, like a smoker's dying breath. Could it be because of Bubaigawara, who'd sat around the bar and consumed cigarettes instead of meals every night? Or perhaps because of Dabi, who always smelled sickeningly of smoldering flesh and smoke plumes? Or perhaps it is from Shigaraki's fingers – always scratching, scratching, scratching with a desperation more potent than addiction. Maybe they'd finally reached down inside of Kurogiri's core and had scraped him clean of anything but Shigaraki-Shigaraki-Shigaraki.

Shigaraki is calling. Shigaraki needs him.

But Kurogiri tries to swim. He resists every urge in his body, in the soul he's sure he doesn't have, and he swallows against the strokes of pain which resist him in turn.

There is no land to swim towards, but there is a Sky. It glimmers silvery: a lining. It drops Clouds to the ocean in cottony veils, and sets a mist upon the water's surface as it grows blacker like a hole, void, vortex. Kurogiri thinks he can press on a little longer. If only he could claw at the waters just a little longer, he'd reach the Clouds. He knows he cannot crawl through holes in space and time – not anymore, not here, not this time, for it would break the rules and everything would slip from him. And he'd drown. Again.

So he swims despite how his heart bleeds at the sound of Shigaraki's voice – _Kurogiri! Why won't you come? Why won't you come!? _He thrashes and splutters and chokes as the undercurrent sets his legs in knots, and as the waves crash against him, and as the hazy silhouette of his body flickers in struggle. Water flows over him. Blackness. Obscurity. The voices – _Kurogiri! Where are you? Why won't you come? – _diminish him; they echo with sea-sharp immensity, and leave the taste of tears down his throat.

Kurogiri has no throat to speak. Kurogiri has no lungs to breathe. He only has a ribcage, and within it there is Shigaraki – no, someone else – no, only Shigaraki – _no_. Shira– Shira–

–kumo.

His hand reaches out from the water, and it is White. White as the Sky.

And a man cries somewhere near him. A man cries for him, weeping the name Kurogiri thinks he knows.


	5. Shiver (Geten x Dabi)

**A/N: I've wanted to write this for a while now. The lack of resolution between Dabi and Geten's battle is something I'm really sure is intentional, and I'm super keen to see how it plays out. This is just a little bit of a midnight quickie on that note. **

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Shiver

Everything inside of him burned.

His lungs were swollen, as if upon the scents of Sulphur and sweat and smoke – it infuriated him, the stink of it. The way it stalked him down corridors and followed him into his bedsheets, phantom odours and shadows in the shapes of flames. Lighters glinting in the corners of his eyes. Uneven footsteps disappearing when he looked behind himself, over his shoulder, reappearing when he looked away again – such clumsy, taunting sounds, heavy beneath the soles of tattered boots. The colour blue, all over his skin. It ripped through the layers of his clothing, scorched into his throat and chest, down his stomach. All the way down, down, down.

Geten didn't know what it was to writhe. He was perfect and powerful, cold to the core. But if he had to guess, this was it. Writhing. And he hated it. He hated it, shuddering through dreams he'd never had before. Kicking off blankets with the sense of smoldering all over, his spine sizzling, plumes of smoke before his shut eyes. He didn't know what it was to really writhe, to want something so desperately it avoided any articulation other than through drenching sweats and white hot feeling, a thirst both awful and exhilarating.

Helpless. That was what it felt like. _Helpless_, and miserably unsatisfying.

Also very dirty.

Like he was melting from the inside out, and leaving hot white traces of it between his legs in the night. Like he was being made to bleed out into his night clothes, or spill himself backwards into darkness like dew slipping down the limbs of flowers.

The first time, he'd woken up only after he'd made a mess of the bedsheets, and he didn't understand. He didn't understand. And he'd been sickeningly terrified of his confusion, how childlike it had felt. The times after that, he'd woken up during, and gasps had ripped through him with stabs to the ribcage and flames through his bones. Geten couldn't help the things he cried while it happened, like poison dripping from his tongue. Geten couldn't stop the images that glinted before him so vivid and real – a scarred mouth and filthy, cruel hands; blue eyes staring up at him from between his hipbones while a tongue did things Geten had no idea tongues could do.

_Da-bi._

It was worse when he woke up teetering precariously on the edge of arrival, when the bedsheets were still dry but his insides were in knots and trembling in wait. It didn't matter how much he tried to breathe through it (recalling all the ways Re-Destro had taught him to breathe through torture); it didn't matter how tightly he shut his eyes or how hard he tried to banish the furious, warm feelings. Nightmare scenarios pierced him relentlessly, made his will-power seem as glass, and he would always, always, _always _end up with his hand fumbling clumsily in his underwear like a little boy discovering his body for the first time.

He'd never done it before. He didn't know how to make himself cum like other boys his age probably knew. And he didn't like it. Not knowing. Needing it. He didn't like it but he needed it and wanted it _so so badly_.

And he needed it and wanted it to be Dabi, otherwise it wouldn't end. The pain of the whole thing would carry on long into the morning.

Perhaps it was a punishment that Dabi's eyes began to leave trails of agonising heat down Geten's neck. Somebody, somewhere, knew what he was doing. They could see the feeling written all over Geten's skin just as he could see the vicious point of Dabi's piercings whenever he scowled, or sneered, or played with sparkling flames at his fingertips (those fingertips left welts down Geten's back in his dreams, and made his flesh thaw until rivers of sweat carved themselves across his forehead and spine). Somebody knew what he was doing, and they were making him suffer all the more for it.

Dabi had caught him staring before. Sometimes Dabi would stare back. It was never inviting. Always calloused, remembering every syllable uttered on the battlefield, recalling every shard of ice and returning it with equal heat. With equal hate.

What would he do if he knew? If he heard the feeble, keening way Geten snarled his name when no one was supposed to be listening?

Disgusting, disgusting, _disgusting_.

What would anyone do if they knew? If they could see how Geten began to stare at his naked body in the mirror – ice-sharp angles of hips and collarbones, frosted purple and bloodless in strange places. Not the body of a man, but a boy. Supposedly the body of a warrior. But warriors weren't supposed to cave to dissatisfaction like he did; warriors' unresolved violences weren't supposed to become excruciating, delicious, oozing thirsts for an enemy or an unwilling ally like his had. Geten wasn't supposed to know what it was to writhe, because he was perfect and powerful, cold to the core – and yet, here he was, watching his own reflection contort and swell and crumple as he gripped himself and thought of Dabi. How could he be boiling like this? What would anyone do if they knew?

"Don't you dare make a sound."

The voice comes through the darkness. Geten's soul plunges when he wakes to find his wrists firm above his head and an unfamiliar hardness grinding itself against his thigh. He is held in place, a child. He is crushed beneath the smell of fire and the gleam of poisonous blue eyes above him. Geten doesn't make a sound – not when the acrid hand over his mouth is replaced by harsh, unforgiving lips, and not when a tongue tasting aggressively of something horrible and bitter digs its way through his teeth.

He is hotter than he wants to be, and he realises too late that it is because of the scalding fingertips that scrape his skin. Places that another person's fingers shouldn't have been. Not on his body. His warrior, boy, _private body_, rising to life and waiting for more despite how much he wants it to stop. He wants it. To stop. Only, he's not sure. If he wants it. To stop.

_Da-bi_.

Still, Geten doesn't make a sound. He doesn't move because for the first time in his life, he is petrified and ecstatic. Wretched and expectant, all at once, and the feelings pin him to the mattress even more than Dabi's weight does. Geten's hips lift to an unspoken command. He stays still as the material is ripped from his skin like skin from the bone, and as cold air tears at him like it's never done before.

Dabi pulls away. Geten hears him spit.

Then there are fingers like slippery, sharp claws inside of him and he wants to scream. He wants to kick, or stab, or destroy, because this isn't what should have been happening to him and he shouldn't have liked it. But he can only watch as Dabi's silhouette trembles in manic, strong-willed fury. He can only listen as Dabi hisses demands like icy venom. _Fight it, you little cunt. Why won't you fucking fight it?_ He thrusts harder, deeper, makes the breath in Geten's lungs go jagged. _Come on already! Fight me!  
_

Geten wants to say something biting back, wants to chill Dabi to the core. But he can only choke out desperate moans, and taste the beginnings of his own tears as Dabi removes and returns his melting hot fingers with hellish fervour.

"_Say something_," Dabi demands once again.

And the next word comes out pitiful enough for Geten to almost be ashamed. Almost. "_More_."

A palm screeches across his cheek. Then a hand is around his throat. Then there is a blazing pain through all of his limbs and veins and bones as he's fucked, for the first time, for real. It's in a way that winds him. A way that's meant to wound him, just as it couldn't be done on the battlefield. Dabi makes gorgeous, bitter noises. Geten thinks his insides are ripping open, and that the sun will never rise again, and that he would much rather not wake up in the morning when all of this is over.

His face is wet as though rain pours from his skin, tears and drool and sweat, sweat, sweat; so is his stomach drenched too, because he's already cum all over himself and he doesn't know whether he's more ashamed or relieved.

Nails like staples dig into him. Dabi scores himself upon Geten's insides with a vengeful, intentional, frightening precision. And for a time, Geten is torn between being the body on the bed and being a ghost above it all, watching with horror and profoundly personal satisfaction. That's his body, frozen over with something dreadfully tangled between foreign pleasure and familiar pain. There's nothing he can do about it. Nothing he wants to do about it, though something screams for him to make Dabi stop. To fight it.

_Fight it. Why won't you fight it? _

Everything burns a little more and a little less when finally Dabi finishes inside of him - and when he leaves, Geten curls upon himself and shivers.


End file.
